Contentment

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  εὖ, Ep. ἐύ (but only before a double consonant, so that v becomes long by position, v. infr. V). Adv. (properly neut. of és), well, Lat. bene, opp. to κακῶς, from Hom. downwards: often joined with another Advy., εὖ καὶ ἐπισταμένως well and workmanlike, Il. το. 265, Od. 20. τότ; εὖ λειήνας, ἅρματα εὖ πεπυκασμένα, etc., ν. omn. 1]. 2. 382 54.; so, εὖ κατὰ κόσμον 10. 4723 more rarely, luckily, happily, well off, Od. 3. 188, 190., 19. 79. —Usages : I. with Verbs, esp. of knowing, εὖ οἶδα, εὖ εἰδώς, εὖ γιγνώσκειν, etc., Hom., etc.; εὖ οἶδ᾽ ὅτι, inserted parenthetically i in colloquial Att., σὺ yap, εὖ ᾿οἵδ᾽ ὅτι, οὐ πράγματ᾽ ἄσει Ar. Pax 1296, Dem., εἴς. ; εὖ wap σαφῶς τόδ᾽ ἴστε Aesch. Pers. 784; εὖ οἶδα, in answers, Dioxipp. ΦιλαργΎ. 1; also, εὖ μήδεο consider well, Il. 2. 360;—ed ἔρδειν, -- εὐεργετεῖν, 5.650; εὖ εἰπεῖν τινά to speak well of him, Od. 1. 302 :—after Hom., εὖ δρᾶν, ποιεῖν, θέσθαι to do good, set right, opp. to εὖ πάσχειν, εὖ πράσσειν, εὖ βεβηκέναι to be well off, fare or do well, see the Verbs; so, εὖ ἔχειν, ἥκειν, λαχεῖν to be well off, in health, wealth, or condition, Hdt., etc.; c. gen., εὖ ἥκειν τοῦ βίου Hdt. 1. 30; εὖ φρονεῖν, ν. φρονέω; εὖ σεβεῖν, ν. εὐσεβέω, etc. ;—to give emphasis, it sometimes stands last, ἄνδρες γεγονότες εὖ Hdt..7.134; νόμους μὴ λύειν ἔχοντας εὖ Id. 3.82; and sometimes sepa- rated from its Verb, εὖ πρᾶγμα συντεθέν Dem. 275.20. 2. εὖ 1; oft. in answers, V. sub εὖγε. ΤΙ. with Adjectives or Adverbs, εὖ πάντες or πάντα, like μάλα πάντες, Od. 8. 37, 39, etc.; εὖ μάλα 4. 96, etc. εὖ μάλα πάντες h. Hom. Ap. 172; εὖ μάλα πρεσβύτης Plat. makyabie 44; μάλ᾽ εὖ Ar. Fr. 142, Plat. Soph. 286 Ὁ; εὖ καὶ μάλα Id. Symp. 194A; κάρτα ε εὖ Hdt. 3. 150; εὖ.. πάνυ or πάνυ εὖ Ar, Pl. 198, Plat. Meno 80. A; εὖ σαφῶς Aesch. Pers. 784; εὖ πως Eur. Hec. go2 ; ay, ἄνδρες, εὖ σφόδρα Nicostr. “AmeA. 1: so also, καλῶς τε καὶ εὖ, εὖ τε καὶ καλῶς Hdt. 1. 59, Plat.; εὖ κἀνδρικῶς, εὖ κἀνδρείως Ar. Eq. 379, Thesm. 656. IIT. ἃς Subst., τὸ εὖ the right, the good cause, τὸ δ᾽ εὖ νικάτω Aesch. Ag. 121, 139, cf. Soph. Ph. 1140, Ar. Ach. 661; Tod εὖ ἕνεκα Arist. de Sens. 1, 8. IV. as the Predicate of a propos., τί τῶνδ᾽ εὖ; Aesch. Cho. 337, cf. 116; εὖ εἴη may it be well, Id. Ag. 216; εὖ σοι γένοιτο well be with thee, Poéta. ap. Ath. 186 C. V. in Compos., it has all the senses of the Ady., but commonly implies great- ness, abundance, prosperity, or easiness: thus its compds. often =the compds. of πολύ, opp. to those of κακός and dva-. When a double conson. follows in compos., it is in Ep. commonly ἐῦ-- with v by position, as ἐύὔγναμπτος, ἔΐδμητος, ἐὔζυγος, etc., Herm. h. Hom. Ap. 36; semi- vowels after it are doubled, as étppeAins, ἐὕννητος, ἐύρροος, ἐύσσελμος; in Ep., ἢ is sometimes inserted metri grat., as εὐηγενής, εὐηπελής. Like α-- privat., Lat. ix+, δυσ--, it is compounded only with Nouns, Verbs in which εὖ is the Ist syll. being derived from the compd. Noun, as, εὐπαθέω from εὐπαθής: such forms as εὐπάσχω, εὐποιέω should be written divisim εὖ πάσχω, etc.: in ἐὐκτίμενος, εὐναιόμενος, etc., the Participle has be- come an Adj.:—v. omnino Lob. Phryn. 561 sq.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  After a minute it went into shock, huddled at the center of the cage, panting out its fright. Assured that the cat had spent itself, I carefully latched the door and threw a blanket over the cage so we could transport it without anyone seeing what we had. A few days later we caught the tabby and named him Tiger. We kept the two cats in cages for a few weeks, their waste collected and emptied from bottom sliding trays while they watched us in stiff wide-eyed distrust. Gradually they became tame enough to sniff our fingers without recoiling when we opened their cages’ doors to deposit food and water. One day Bear decided we should leave the cage doors open, allowing the cats the option to explore. This turned out to be a slow process that required much sniffing and inspection of the open doorway. Little by little, they came out and explored the encampment. Any sudden movement from one of the hens or duck sent them darting back into the safety of their little jails. Eventually the cats allowed us to pet them while they lay in a flattened position. Another few weeks and they were scampering about playfully, using the trees to sharpen their claws and following us when we took the fowl for a walk. After a few more weeks they were tame enough to sit in our laps and purr. With four of us running our little zoo there was always someone there to take care of things. Our biggest concern was having enough cat food on hand. We never exactly knew when the next trip to the supermarket would happen, and when the food ran low we had to ration servings for every other day, reasoning that the cats could catch rats and mice as they had when they’d looked after themselves. Bear decided to ask her mom, who didn’t live in the commune and for some reason was allowed to visit on a regular basis, to buy cat food for us. I had accompanied Bear a few times on these parental visits. Her mother, who reminded me of Chrissy Hinds from The Pretenders, usually spent the first ten minutes or so of their time together pinning Bear against her car or a wall while she examined her face and squeezed at all her blackheads and whiteheads. The next time her mother came to visit, she brought two medium-sized bags of cat food concealed in a black rubbish bag. I spent every spare moment at our zoo. In our secret spot there was no radio blasting games of people screaming at one another or capricious adults who could change the course of a child’s day or week on a whim. There was only nature and the animals, and I sat easily for an hour or two at a stretch just watching them. The other girls felt the same way.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  For weeks I’ve hounded Mother daily about brisket, and she’s sworn to ante up. But yesterday her corns hurt, and as late as dawn this morning, the meat hadn’t been bought. She was having palpitations, but I swore if the stove was cold when we walked in, I’d head back to the airport. It could kill me to go to the store with my heart fluttering this way, she said. If you drop dead making this brisket, I said, you’ll go straight up to live with Baby Jesus. I’m thinking of going back to being a Buddhist, she said. Then you’ll escape the wheel of rebirth, I said. Minutes after we pull in, my sister’s face floats cherublike above an electric skillet holding a mess of peppery brisket. She uses her hand to wave toward her nose the white ribbons of steam swiveling up. Mother breathes frost on her big square glasses, then wipes them. She looks stunned we’re making such a big deal. Oh, she says with a distracted look, I forgot to get the blow-up mattress. (Lecia and I sent her—separately, it turns out—cash to buy an extra mattress.) My sister’s deaf to this. She’s forking up saucy meat with a beatific expression. Such a token might not exactly undo past hurts, but they might reshape our mouths to savor what’s now being served up. That night, at opposite ends of the bulbous sofa, Lecia and I have lain our respective heads like characters in a storybook rowboat under tinfoil stars, with a faded blue quilt covering our middles. In the saggy double bed we used to share, our boys have sacked out—Dev blond like her, Case dark like me. At the schoolyard basketball court today, we’d watched Dev drag in Case’s wake as I had Lecia’s. Just thirteen, Case can just barely palm the ball for a second or two, his hand like a giant spider holding it aloft as Dev gapes. Ready? Case said, and he bounce-passed it to the smaller boy. Dev two-stepped through a layup, the orange ball slipping through the white net, which prompted Case to shout out swish. Leaping for the rebound, Case stepped back and started to lecture, detailing proper form for a shot with the rigor of a ballet master. Bend your knees. Hold it here. Finish with the tips of your fingers right over the front rim. That night on Mother’s sofa, Lecia asks, Who does Case remind you of? In terms of the need to expound? You and Daddy, I say. Frightening, she says. About then Mother stumps in, hair every which way, a piece of cheese disappearing into her maw. She says, What’re y’all talking about so late? Our deep and abiding love for you, Lecia says. Mother slumps down on the facing chair, staring at the grassy shag carpet. When she lifts her head, there are tears in her eyes. I wish your daddy was here for this, she says, us all together this way.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  εὐψυχέω, to be of good courage, Ep. Phil. 2.19, Poll. 3. 135. II. εὐψύχει, farewell, a common inscr. on tombs, like Lat. have pia anima!, Anth. P. append. 244, C. I. 2204, 4467, al.: cf. εὐπλοέω, εὐτυχέω. εὐψυχής, ἔς, (ψῦχος) agreeably cool, Hdn. 1. 12., 6. 6. εὐψυχία, ἡ, good courage, high spirit, Aesch. Pers. 326, Eur. Med. 402, Thuc, 1. 121, al.; opp. to κακοψυχία, Plat. Legg. 791 Ὁ. εὔψῦχος, ov, (ψυχήν) of good courage, stout of heart, courageous, Lat. animosus, Aesch. Pers. 394, Eur. Rhes. 510, etc.; τὸ .. és τὰ ἔργα εὔ- ψυχον Thuc. 2. 39., cf. 43., 4.126; εὐψυχότατοι πρὸς τὸ ἐπιέναι Id. 2. 621 11:—Advy. -χως, Xen. Eq. Mag. 8, 21. 11. (Wixw) refreshing, Theophr. C. ἘΞ 5.14, 1. evo, fut. Vow: aor. εὗσα without augm.: (ν. sub αὔω) :—poét. Verb, fo singe, in Hom. of singeing off swine’s bristles before they are cooked, εὗσέ τε μίστυλλέν τε καὶ dup ὀβέλοισιν ἔπειρεν Od. 14. 75, cf. 426., 2. 300; σύες εὑόμενοι τανύοντο διὰ φλογός Il. 9. 468., 22. 333 so of the Cyclops, πάντα δέ οἱ βλέφαρ᾽ ἀμφὶ καὶ ὀφρύας εὗσεν ἀὐτμή Od. ο. 389: metaph. of a shrewish wife, ever ἄτερ δαλοῦ ἄνδρα Hes. Op. 703. In Luc. Lexiph. 11 and E. M. it is written evw; but the Compds. ἀφεύω, ἐφεύω are against this. εὐωδέω, 10 be fragrant, Hdn. Epimer. 250, Eccl. εὐώδης, ες, (ὄζω, ddwba) sweet-smelling, fragrant, opp. to δυσώδης, ἐν θαλάμῳ εὐώδεὶ 1]. 3.382; εὐῶδες ἔλαιον Od. 2. 339; εὐώδης κυπάρισσος 5.64; εὐωδέστατος Hdt. 3.112; then in Pind., in Att. Poets and Prose; τὸ εὐῶδες -- εὐωδία, Arist. de An. 2.9, 11; εὐωδὲς ὄζειν Id. Probl. 12. 3. εὐωδία, Ion. -ίη, ἡ, a sweet smell, Hdt. 4. 75, Xen. Symp. 2, 3; in pl., Plat. Tim, 65 A; but in pl., also, fragrant substances, Diod. 1. 84. εὐωδιάζω, to perfume :—Pass. to emit sweet smells, to be Sragrant, Strabo 721, Diosc. 2. 91. εὐωδίζομαι, Dep. to perceive a sweet smell, Sext. Emp. M. 7. 193. evadiv, ivos, 6, ἡ, happy as a parent, fruitful, Opp. C. 3.19; νηδύς Anth. P. 6. 201; epith. of Demeter, Maxim. 7. καταρχ. 529. Ti, pass. happily born, Coluth, 281, Nonn. D. 14. 148. εὔῳδος, ov, sweet-sounding, γῆρυς Plut. 2. 405 F. evadevos, ov, fair-armed, Pind. P. 9. 31; δεξιά Eur. Hipp. 605. εὐωμοσία, ἡ, observance of an oath, Hdn. Epimer. 205. εὐώμοτος, ov, (ὄμνυμι) observing oaths, Poll. 1. 39. εὐώνητος, ov, well-bought, cheap, Strabo 218. εὐωνία, 7, cheapness, Polyb. 2. 15, 4:---εαὐωνίζω, to hold cheap, Aq. V.T. εὔωνος, ov, of fair price, cheap (Fr. ἃ bon marché), Epich. 19 Ahr., Dem. 255.12, etc.; φίλοι Xen. Mem. 2. 10, 4; θάνατος Anth. P. 11. 169: —Comp. εὐωνότερος, Sup. -ὅτατος, Dem. 255.12, Plat.Euthyd. 304B; but irreg. —véaTepos, Epich. ap. Ath. 424D. Ady. —vws, Sup. -ότατα C.1. 2483. εὐωνυμέομαι, Pass. to enjoy a good name, Eust. Opusc. 141. 13.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  B. the Adv. οἰκείως has the same senses as the Adj., οἰκείως φέρε bear it like your own affair, Ar. Thesm. 197; otk. διαλέγεσθαί τινι ἴο converse familiarly with him, Thuc. 6. 573 oik. συνεῖναί τινι, Lat. fami- liariter utt aliqguo, Xen. Hell. 7. 3, 55 80, oik. διακεῖσθαί τινι Id. An. 7. 8: 16; πρός τι Polyb. 13. I, 23 otk. δέχεσθαί τινα Dem. 299. 28; otk. ἔχειν τινί Dem. 41: 17, etc. :—Comp. πότερον, Isocr. de Cleon. Hered. 49; ποτέρως, Arist. Categ. 7; Sup. -ότατα, Polyb. 5. 100, 4. 11. properly, Ar. Lys. 1118, Xen. sae 2,17; ἔθαψε, περιέστειλεν oir. Menand. ΜισοΎ. I. 12, etc. 2. affectionately, dutifully, Thuc. 2. 60. οἰκειότης, Ion. οἰκηιότης, ητος, 7, a being οἰκεῖος (signf. 11), kindred, relationship, Hdt. 6.54, Thuc. 2. 86, Plat. Rep. 537 C: intimacy, friend- ship, friendliness, kindness, φιλία καὶ oix. Thuc. 4 4. 19, cf. Plat. Symp. 197 Ὁ :—in pl. friendly relations, Andoc. 15. 40, Den: 237.12. 2. the living together as man and wife, marriage, Isocr. 216 C, Lys. 92. 21. II. of words and phrases, the proper sense, opp. to μεταφορά, Plut. Cic. 40, in pl. οἰκειό-φωνοϑ, ov, by word of mouth: in Adv. -νως, Ctes. Pers. 9. οἰκειό-χειρος, ov, with one’s own hands: Adv. --ρως, Byz. οἰκειόω, Ion. οἰκηιόω, to make one’s own (οἰκεῖος IIT). 1. to make a person one’s friend, opp. to ἀλλοτριόω, Thuc. 3. 65. II. mostly in Med., 1. c. acc. pers. to make a person one’s friend, win his favour or affection, conciliate, Hdt. 4.148, Plat. Legg. 738 Ὁ; oi. τινα πρός τινα Plut. Otho 2; οἷκ. τὸν δῆμον λόγῳ Dion. Η. 9. 44: —Pass. to be made friendly, opp. to πολεμοῦται, Thue. 1. 26, cf. Arist. Pol. 7. fey {9}. 2. c. acc. rei, to make one’s own, claim as one’s own, Appropriate, τὴν ᾿Ασιήν οἰκηιεῦνται οἱ Πέρσαι Hdt. τ. 4: τούτων τὴν ἐξεύρεσιν οὐκ οἰκηιεῦνται Λυδοί Ib. 943 so, Αἰγύπτιοι otk, παρ 1029 βυσέα claim him as their own, Id. 3. 2; ἅπαντα τὰ ἐν πόλει otk. Lo ap- propriate to oneself, ΤΠ ΘΡΟΙδθε, Plat. Rep. 466 Ο; much like σφετερίζω, Id. Legg. 843 E. 3. generally, to adapt, make fit or suitable, τινι τι Sotad. ᾽Ἔγπκλει. 1. 16; τι πρός τι Polyb. 9. 1, 2:—Pass. to become Samiliar or closely united, ταῖς ψυχαῖς Plat. Prot. "326 B, cf. Parm. 128 A; οἱ @rewpevor φυσιολογίᾳ Diog. L. 10. 37. oiketw, Ep. for oixéw, Hes. Th. 330. οἰκείωμα, τό, kindred, relationship, πρός τι Strab. 269. propriateness, Dion. H. de Rhet. 7. 5. οἰκείωσις, 7, a making one’s friend, Clem. Al. 777. 2. a taking as one’s own, appropriation, οἰκείωσιν ποιεῖσθαί τινος Thuc. 4. 128. 3. adaptation, Plut. 2. 1038 C. οἰκειωτικός, 77, Ov, (oixerda 2) appropriative, τέχνη oi. Plat. Soph. 223 B. 2. adapting, oix. δύναμις πρός τι Plut. 2. 759 E.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  A CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Physical Education “I WAS BORN DEAD,” Tim told me for the tenth time. “Yes, I know,” I said. I watched him bend over his shoe, retying the lace, contentment settled on his sleepy features. Tim was new to the community, and every day we kids were required to divide our time into two-hour slots to act as a sort of babysitter for him. He took immense pride in the fact that he’d been technically born dead, a fact that seemed to explain his mental retardation. Most of the adults humored him, holding out their hands to have him slap them five and often asking him how he liked living in Synanon. He always said, “It’s super!” which elicited the expected response, “All right!” This exchange was repeated all day, and Tim never tired of it. The demonstrators put Tim in as many school activities as he could handle and physical education. Physical education in the Synanon school had always been rigorous. Like inspection, it was performed military-style, and unless you were seriously ill, there was no getting out of the drills we were put through. After countless sit-ups, leg lifts, pull-ups and pushups, we ran a mile and a half to three miles, five days a week, in all weather. We ran in

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Ray called from the bedroom, and poked his head out, looking tense. “We’re leaving in a few minutes.” Sara and I grabbed our bags and set them by the front door. “I packed us some food for the trip,” Theresa said, returning to the living room empty handed. I nodded and refrained from mentioning that I had been right there with her, bagging the egg salad sandwiches. “There are also some healthy snacks here for you girls.” She unfolded one of the bags. “Let’s see, there’s raisins and almonds, oranges...” “Theresa, we need to get going.” Ray breezed past my mom with his duffle bag and opened the front door. “Okay, I also packed some granola and fruit juice for you, Ray.” “Theresa, please , let’s talk about it in the car.” I watched my mother roll down the top of the paper bag that had our food in it, her eyebrows pulled tightly together. Minutes later we followed Ray out of the apartment and to the car. Theresa set the bag of food on the seat between Sara and me. I opened my novel, but I had barely read a word when Theresa said, “I didn’t appreciate being rushed and talked to like that.” “Theresa , we had to get going. We’re running late as it is,” Ray said in his strained I-can’t-take-this-anymore voice. “Yes, but there are better ways to communicate that.” “Look, I don’t see how I could have communicated it any better. We needed to go.” “Also, I noticed that you are not really listening to me; you are only waiting to argue your point.” “What?” “I expressed to you that I didn’t really like the way that I was being treated, but you are not hearing what I am saying, Ray.” He sighed. “Ok, you didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go, right?” “Yes. It hurt my feelings when you cut me off. I was trying to tell you that I packed granola, because I know you like granola.” Ray did not respond right away as he took in what she said. When he spoke again, his tone had changed to the carefully modulated “I’m using my calm and reasonable voice now.” “So you are saying your feelings were hurt when you were talking about the granola because you felt I cut you off?” “Yes.” Sara rolled her eyes and made gagging motions with her fingers pointed at her open mouth. I grinned. “I hear what you are saying. You didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go. You felt it was abrupt.” “Yes.” “I understand and I will try to communicate better in the future, but sometimes I feel like you don’t always listen.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  When I expressed that we needed to leave, you continued to talk about the food you packed and I found that irritating.” “I hear that you were irritated...” and so it went. I returned my attention to my book and enjoyed the rest of the uneventful drive to LA. I read and gazed out the window in turn at dry hills with scrubby brown grass, interspersed with acres of mono crops and orchards, while munching on almonds, raisins, and my egg salad sandwich. At one point we passed a field of oil pumps. They reminded me of large chickens endlessly bobbing up and down in slow motion, pecking tirelessly at the barren earth beneath them. The mood was serene and the scenery hypnotic, until we actually arrived in LA and found ourselves in a tangle of traffic, cars weaving in and out of lanes, horns blaring. Ray had suddenly turned into a fugitive again, shoulders pushed up to his ears, head swiveling every other second over his shoulder as he maneuvered to get into the far-right lane. The Summit Lighthouse Community was located in Malibu Canyon, Calabasas, the property surrounded by the Santa Monica Mountains. At one time a seminary of Claretian novitiates, the old campus and sprawling Spanish Colonial Revival style building was now home to the New Age spiritualist group that studied the teachings of the ascended masters. There did not seem to be anyone around when we arrived. From the parking lot we set forth on a foot path lined with rose bushes and impatiens to the impressive elegant structure, which sat atop a grassy knoll. At the entrance we were greeted by an elderly man wearing slacks and a sweater vest of an indiscriminate color, his white hair carefully combed and parted at the side. My eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dim lighting when we stepped inside and onto a plush carpet. “We are having our meditation now. Please, would you care to join us?” he said with quiet enthusiasm. Theresa and Ray accepted the offer. Sara and I opted out. We watched our parents follow the old man down the hallway. Left alone in the foyer, which now that it was coming into focus seemed to have the air of a funeral parlor, we studied several enlarged portraits of Elizabeth Clare Prophet and various solemn-looking ascended masters bathed in pastel-colored backdrops. In every picture of Elizabeth, she was dressed either in a suit or a gauzy blouse, the neckline plunging into feminine ruffles. She stared back, haloed in soft lighting with a look of contemplative benevolence.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  sometimes I feel like you don’t always listen. When I expressed that we needed to leave, you continued to talk about the food you packed and I found that irritating.” “I hear that you were irritated...” and so it went. I returned my attention to my book and enjoyed the rest of the uneventful drive to LA. I read and gazed out the window in turn at dry hills with scrubby brown grass, interspersed with acres of mono crops and orchards, while munching on almonds, raisins, and my egg salad sandwich. At one point we passed a field of oil pumps. They reminded me of large chickens endlessly bobbing up and down in slow motion, pecking tirelessly at the barren earth beneath them. The mood was serene and the scenery hypnotic, until we actually arrived in LA and found ourselves in a tangle of traffic, cars weaving in and out of lanes, horns blaring. Ray had suddenly turned into a fugitive again, shoulders pushed up to his ears, head swiveling every other second over his shoulder as he maneuvered to get into the far-right lane. The Summit Lighthouse Community was located in Malibu Canyon, Calabasas, the property surrounded by the Santa Monica Mountains. At one time a seminary of Claretian novitiates, the old campus and sprawling Spanish Colonial Revival style building was now home to the New Age spiritualist group that studied the teachings of the ascended masters. There did not seem to be anyone around when we arrived. From the parking lot we set forth on a foot path lined with rose bushes and impatiens to the impressive elegant structure, which sat atop a grassy knoll. At the entrance we were greeted by an elderly man wearing slacks and a sweater vest of an indiscriminate color, his white hair carefully combed and parted at the side. My eyes needed a moment to adjust to the dim lighting when we stepped inside and onto a plush carpet. “We are having our meditation now. Please, would you care to join us?” he said with quiet enthusiasm. Theresa and Ray accepted the offer.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  τοῖς λόγοις Id. Euthyd. 303 Ὁ ;—esp. after having been angry, Hdt. 2. 181 (cf. mpadtys) ; ὁ θὴρ ὅδ᾽ ἡμῖν πρᾶος, of Bacchus, Eur. Bacch. 436: —so of a horse, gentle, ἀλλήλοις πραότεροι Xen. Cyr. 2.1, 29; of other animals, tame, ἰχθύων μεγάλων καὶ πραέων Id. An. 1. 4, 9, cf. Arist. H. A. I. 1; ζῷα... πραέα πρὸς τοὺς ἀνθρώπους Xen. Oec. 15, 9. 3. of actions, feelings, etc., mild, τιμωρίαι πραότεραι Plat. Legg. 867 Β; ἡδοναὶ mpadrepac Ib. 815 E; λόγοι, ἦθος, φύσις Id. ; τὰ mpaéa caresses, Xen. Eq. 9, 10; πραύτερα πάσχειν Plat. Crito 49 B. 11. mak- ing mild, taming, φάρμακον πραὖῦ τείνων ἀμφὶ γενύν, of a bridle, Pind. O. 13.121; mpoxwety αὐτὸν [τὸν ἵππον) ws πραοτάτοις σημείοις Xen. Eq. Q, 3- TIL. Adv. πράως (from πρᾶος), mildly, gently, πράως πείθειν τινί, φέρειν τι Plat. Rep. 589 C, Crito 43 Β; πράως ἔχειν πρός τι Id. Lys. 211 Ε; πράως λέγειν τὸ πάθος to speak lightly of it, Xen. An. I. 5, 14; mpdass διακεῖσθαι, opp. to ὀργίζεσθαι, Dem.) 5.713: 24; πράως οὐ πικρῶς Id. 315. 15 ;—Comp., πραότερον προδιδάσκειν, κολά- ζειν Plat. Gorg. 489 Ὁ, Phaedo 94 Ὁ; πραοτέρως ἔχειν τινί Joseph. A. J. 17.6, 4;—Sup., φέρειν .. ὧς πραότατα Plat. Rep. 387 E. 2. later form πραέως (from mais), Diod. 1. 36, Dicaearch., etc. :—cf. also πραύνως. πρᾶότηΞ, ητος, 7, mildness, gentleness, opp. to χαλεπότης Lys. τού. 15, Isocr. 38 C, Plat. Rep. 558 A, etc.; opp. to ἀγριότης, Id. Symp. 197 D; properly the contrary habit to passionateness (ὀργιλότης), Arist. Eth. N. 4. 5, Rhet. 2. 3, 1:—in pl., Isocr. 106 A :—apairys is a later form, C. 1. 2788, Eccl. πρᾶπίδες, ai, dat. mpamiow Pind. O. 2. 171, Ep. πραπίδεσσι —poét. word, 1. properly = φρένες, the midriff, diaphragm, ἔβαλ᾽ ἧπαρ ὑπὸ πραπίδων Il. 11. 579., 13. 412., 17. 349:—then, since this was deemed the seat of all mental powers and affections, 2. like φρένες, the wits, understanding, mind, ἰδυίῃσι πραπίδεσσιν 1]. 1. 608., 18. 380, etc.; περὶ μὲν πραπίδες, περὶ δ᾽ ἔστι νόημα Hes. Th. 656 :—as the seat of desire, the heart, ἀπὸ πραπίδων ἦλθ᾽ ἥμερος 1]. 24. 514; ἔσχεν ἄκοιτιν ἀραρυῖαν πραπίδεσσιν a wife he had after his own heart, Hes. Th. 608; πάσῃσιν ὀρέγεσθαι πραπίδεσσιν Emped. 430; πραπίδων πλοῦτος Ib. 300, 420; also in Pind. O. 10 (11). Io, P. 4. 500, and in lyr. passages of Trag., Aesch. Ag. 380, 802, Eur. Andr. 481 :—the sing. mpamis, ίδος, is rare, Pind. P. 2. 113, Fr. 228, Eur. Bacch. 428, 999 (lyr.), Epigr. Gr. 597. ampacetos, a, ov, f.1. for πράσινος, Poll. Το. 42. πρᾶσιά, Ion. 14, ἡ, α bed in a garden, garden-plot, Od. 7. 127., 24. 247, Theophr. H.P. 4. 4, 3, etc. ; ἀνθῶν πρασιαί Longus 4. 2; cf. ἄνδη- pov :—metaph., πρασιαὶ πρασιαΐ in companies or groups, Ev. Marc. 6.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  In the end Horton is accosted by Mazie when she happens to come flying by one day and sees him getting so much attention for sitting on her egg in a circus that he never wanted to be in. I always felt satisfied at the justice of the egg finally cracking open to birth a baby elephant with wings. This Dr. Seuss book, told in a humorous way that I could understand and to which I could relate at age seven, provided parallels to my own experiences and feelings of parental abandonment, displacement and living as an exile in a foreign culture. One day an announcement was made, in typical Synanon fashion, that children seven and older were no longer allowed to check out picture books at the library and instead were required to borrow books with a minimum of one hundred pages. This rule felt like a disaster to me. I loved picture books. Books filled only with text were one step below newspapers, which at least had comic strips. It took only a few days for me to realize that the new rule was one of the best ever enforced by the demonstrators. As I combed through the middle-school readers, I found Ruth Chew’s quirky stories of children who discovered befuddled witches in their closets and under their beds. The cover image of two girls dancing gaily with a lion, a wreath of flowers around the cat’s neck, soon had me immersed in the adventures of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I inhaled the whole Wizard of Oz series and the adventures of Johnny Gruelle’s Raggedy Ann and Andy. Raggedy Ann was something of a mystic. She and Raggedy Andy were forever going on adventures in forests where hotdogs grew on trees, lollypop bushes abounded and there were soda water springs if ever anyone became thirsty. Usually the characters would stumble upon a general store in the middle of nowhere, the proprietor only too happy to give away his merchandise, as the dolls had no money. The suspenseful part of the tale came when Raggedy Ann and Andy were captured by a wizard or witch who lived in the “deep, deep woods” and wanted to cut Ann open and steal her magical candy heart. Raggedy Ann’s compassion for her wicked captors knew no bounds. In one story she chided Raggedy Andy for purposely distracting a witch who was trying to remember the spell to render Raggedy Ann unconscious so she could then destroy the doll. These villains always burst into tears of frustration when their spells didn’t work, and Raggedy Ann would comfort them by telling them that all the magic they needed was right there inside of them and that if they would just clear the cobwebs of sorrow and selfishness from their minds, rays of goodness and kindliness would light up their souls.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  Theresa set the bag of food on the seat between Sara and me. I opened my novel, but I had barely read a word when Theresa said, “I didn’t appreciate being rushed and talked to like that.” “Theresa , we had to get going. We’re running late as it is,” Ray said in his strained I-can’t-take-this-anymore voice. “Yes, but there are better ways to communicate that.” “Look, I don’t see how I could have communicated it any better. We needed to go.” “Also, I noticed that you are not really listening to me; you are only waiting to argue your point.” “What?” “I expressed to you that I didn’t really like the way that I was being treated, but you are not hearing what I am saying, Ray.” He sighed. “Ok, you didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go, right?” “Yes. It hurt my feelings when you cut me off. I was trying to tell you that I packed granola, because I know you like granola.” Ray did not respond right away as he took in what she said. When he spoke again, his tone had changed to the carefully modulated “I’m using my calm and reasonable voice now.” “So you are saying your feelings were hurt when you were talking about the granola because you felt I cut you off?” “Yes.” Sara rolled her eyes and made gagging motions with her fingers pointed at her open mouth. I grinned. “I hear what you are saying. You didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go. You felt it was abrupt.” “Yes.” “I understand and I will try to communicate better in the future, but sometimes I feel like you don’t always listen. When I expressed that we needed to leave, you continued to talk about the food you packed and I found that irritating.” “I hear that you were irritated...” and so it went. I returned my attention to my book and enjoyed the rest of the uneventful drive to LA. I read and gazed out the window in turn at dry hills with scrubby brown grass, interspersed with acres of mono crops and orchards, while munching on almonds, raisins, and my egg salad sandwich. At one point we passed a field of oil pumps. They reminded me of large chickens endlessly bobbing up and down in slow motion, pecking tirelessly at the barren earth beneath them. The mood was serene and the scenery hypnotic, until we actually arrived in LA and found ourselves in a tangle of traffic, cars weaving in and out of lanes, horns blaring. Ray had suddenly turned into a fugitive again, shoulders pushed up to his ears, head swiveling every other second over his shoulder as he maneuvered to get into the far-right lane. The Summit Lighthouse Community was located in Malibu Canyon, Calabasas, the property surrounded by the Santa Monica Mountains.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  She perches on the side of an easy chair and studies her puzzle. She says, I’m bad on coinage. Can you call your sister? I flip open my cell phone and punch redial. Lecia answers as she does when busy, like one of those cartoon tycoons—or the mother of five children, which she is. She says, Do you need something? Coin of Alexander the Great. How many letters? Eleven. Tetradrachm, she says, then spells it. Is that it? she adds, I’m covered up with work here. We trade love before I snap the phone shut. Got it, Mother says, and moves to the next clue while saying, I figured you or your sister would come along and fix it. The eleven-letter word? The ceiling, she says. I track down and cajole into action air-conditioner repairmen and electricians and plaster workers to glue back together Mother’s crayoned house. That’s it, I say when the bills are presented. We’re selling this cracker box. We chip in to buy Mother a condo in the same small town as Lecia’s office. We know Mother will rail about the change, but to prop up the rotting house would cost twice what it’s worth. I can envision driving up someday to find the walls caved in, Mother sitting amid mossy ruins with book in hand and birds nesting in her hair. You tell her it’s a fait accompli, Lecia says. She’ll raise holy hell. You make her take the hit. Tom and I’ll move her. If y’all do that, I’ll clean out the house. Once again Mother promises to be packed and ready, and once again Lecia finds her staring, coffee cup in midair, at three empty supermarket boxes, not a single plate newspapered. I need y’all to start me up, Mother says. Over a period of two days, Lecia and her husband pack and manhandle Mother’s possessions into a truck with the energy of newlyweds. They ferry it all two hours away, near Houston, into the corner unit we bought, staying till every picture is hung. Making up Mother’s new bed with plush linens, Lecia finds a Polaroid of the egg-yolk crayon house under Mother’s pillow. The old house is cleared of big pieces when I fly in to clean it out, which involves sorting through letters and paintings and stuff we may want to tenderly tuck away in tissue, though in truth, we partly long to bulldoze the place. I’m not without help. My high school friend Doonie, now the fence king of San Diego County, flies home to help. So does John Cleary—boy next door, first kiss. They show up on the steps as if dismounted from white chargers to shovel out the pigsty of a house.

• From Synanon Kid: Book One: A Memoir of Growing Up in the Synanon Cult

  food in it, her eyebrows pulled tightly together. Minutes later we followed Ray out of the apartment and to the car. Theresa set the bag of food on the seat between Sara and me. I opened my novel, but I had barely read a word when Theresa said, “I didn’t appreciate being rushed and talked to like that.” “Theresa, we had to get going. We’re running late as it is,” Ray said in his strained I-can’t-take-this-anymore voice. “Yes, but there are better ways to communicate that.” “Look, I don’t see how I could have communicated it any better. We needed to go.” “Also, I noticed that you are not really listening to me; you are only waiting to argue your point.” “What?” “I expressed to you that I didn’t really like the way that I was being treated, but you are not hearing what I am saying, Ray.” He sighed. “Ok, you didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go, right?” “Yes. It hurt my feelings when you cut me off. I was trying to tell you that I packed granola, because I know you like granola.” Ray did not respond right away as he took in what she said. When he spoke again, his tone had changed to the carefully modulated “I’m using my calm and reasonable voice now.” “So you are saying your feelings were hurt when you were talking about the granola because you felt I cut you off?” “Yes.” Sara rolled her eyes and made gagging motions with her fingers pointed at her open mouth. I grinned. “I hear what you are saying. You didn’t like the way I spoke to you when I said it was time to go. You felt it was abrupt.” “Yes.” “I understand and I will try to communicate better in the future, but

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  His curls are damp around the edges from the heat. I heave him up and inhale an odor of wet earth in his hair, and he plants a dry kiss on my cheek. I let him down and greet Warren, balancing a coffee holder with two steaming cups and a crumpled pastry bag. His white shirt, rolled up at the wrists, shows the lineaments of his brown forearms. He holds the coffee to one side, bending so I can kiss him, and in his preoccupied expression is infinite gentleness. I place my lips on his square jaw and taste the living salt of him. In the kitchen a few minutes later, the first creamy sip of strong coffee gives me a distinct flood of pleasure. I remember a few similar instants when I first quit drinking. Nothing has changed, really. The uncertainty of my marriage is still there. But some equanimity exists, as if some level in my chest has ceased its endless teetering and found its balance point. In my life, I sometimes knew pleasure or excitement but rarely joy. Now a wide sky-span of quiet holds us. My head’s actually gone quiet. Some sluggishness is sloughed off. I am upright all of a sudden, inside a self I find quasi-acceptable, even as I’m incarcerated. Maybe this giant time-out has given me rest I sorely needed. Basically, some fist pounding on the center of my chest has unclasped itself. I’ve let go. I don’t know if Warren notices the difference, for—other than two sessions with a family social worker—we don’t see each other except with Dev, which speaks volumes about the space between us. (Were we both waiting for me to come home? Why didn’t this wall between us stay down, even when we both willed it? Because we didn’t trust each other as much as we trusted the distances we’d grown up in?) The morning after this sane visit, I lift my just-scrubbed face from the towel to meet my own gaze in the metal mirror, and I almost see a bold outline around myself, as if inked with magic marker. Alive, I am, a living, breathing Mary of myself. Hello, stranger, I actually say out loud. In occupational therapy, the other women in the ward—who’ve been vague holograms viewed through a scrim of tears when I checked in—have turned into full-fledged human units whose stories I begin to follow like daytime soaps. We’re supposed to be fashioning decorative wreaths, those circles of dried flowers and herbs that happy housewives hang in suburban kitchens from grosgrain ribbon. A grassy aroma rises around us as we work. I sit before a styrofoam ring, concentrating on the dumb task of wrapping florist’s tape on a green wire. Across the art table from me sits Pam, a strapping blond psychopath—a diagnosis she stays volubly pissed off about.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  When a guy honks and cuts me off and shrieks at me, calling me the c-word, my hand does not automatically flip him the bird—a small change, maybe, but for me profound. That spring-loaded trigger has eased off. The guy’s comment just flows past as if I’ve been lacquered over. Every so often I find myself praying for citizens like him, though in the past I might have petitioned for a machine gun. One morning at my desk, an essay I’ve had an idea about starts to unreel itself like a satin ribbon. Six hours later, I look up and realize I’ve been writing with ease. Some days, premenstrual self-loathing can transform me into a ring-tailed, horn-honking, door-slamming bitch. But those incidents now strike me as 100 percent my problem, regardless of provocation. And they bring me to my knees, for it’s on their back end that I sometimes fantasize about a slender glass of innocent champagne with some berry-colored crème de cassis making a little sunset in the flute’s bottom. Therapy rescued me in my twenties by taking me inward, leaching off pockets of poison in my head left over from the past. But the spiritual lens—even just the nightly gratitude list and going over each day’s actions—is starting to rewrite the story of my life in the present, and I begin to feel like somebody snatched out of the fire, salvaged, saved. 35I Accept a Position“I accept the universe” is reported to have been a favorite utterance of our New England transcendentalist, Margaret Fuller; and when someone repeated this phrase to Thomas Carlyle, his sardonic comment is said to have been: “Gad! she’d better!” —William James, The Varieties of Religious Experience Just when I’ve stopped craving a drink, a job offer from Syracuse floats down, with grad students and colleagues like Toby, plus a curriculum that’ll let me scavenge the library like in the golden days of grad school. But I can’t picture staying sober outside the circle I’ve conscribed—the women I hang out with, the house, coffee making for meetings, a meditation group. The further I get from that rainy night my car skidded sideways on my last drunk, the bleaker the outlook of toppling back into the tar I’ve just slithered out of. A beer has come to seem like a bullet in a gun’s chamber. But the occasional urge for icy oblivion can still tear through me with brute longing.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  συμφωνία, 7, concord or unison of sound, symphony, τὴν ἐν ὥδῃ appo- νίαν. ἣ δὴ σ. καλεῖται Plat. Crat. 405 D; ἡ yap ἁρμονία σ. ἐστί, σ. δὲ ὁμολογία τις Id. Symp. 187 B, cf. Rep. 420 Ε; λόγος ἀριθμῶν ἐν ὀξεῖ ἢ βαρεῖ Arist. An. Post. 2. 2, 3, cf. de An. 3. 2, 11 sq.3 Kpdois ἐστι λόγον ἐχόντων ἐναντίων πρὸς ἄλληλα Id. Probl. 19. 38. 2. properly of two sounds only, a musical concord, accord, such as the fourth, fifth and octave (v. sub διαπασῶν), Plat. Rep. 531 A, C, Arist. Probl. 19. 39, etc.; distinguished from mere ὁμοφωνία, Id. Pol. 2. 5, 14, Plut. 2. 389 D; cf. Dict. of Antiqq. p. 629. 3. the harmonious union of many voices or sounds, a concert, of τῶν σ. λόγοι, the Pythag. doctrine of the music of the spheres, Arist. Cael. 2. 9, 3. II. metaph. harmony, agreement, Plat. Legg. 689 D, Arist. Pol. 7. 15, 7: 6. τῷ λόγῳ Plat. Rep. 4o1D; ἔ. τῆς ψυχῆς ἑαυτῇ Id. Tim. 47 D; μίξας πάντα κατὰ συμφωνίαν, of ἃ cook, Damox. Svvt. 1. 54: cf. συμφωνέω τι. 111. prob. as name of a musical instr., Polyb. 26. Io, 5, cf. 31. 4, 8, Diod. Excerpt. p. 577; 80, symphonia in Prudent. seems to be the Egypt. sis- trum: v. 1514. Etym. 3. 22, Ducang. 5. v. symphonia. συμφωνιᾶκός, 7, dv, of or Sor symphony : pueri symphoniaci, singing boys, Οἷς. Mil, 21. II. ἢ πκή, a name for the ὑοσκύαμος, Apulei. Herb. 4. init.; so perhaps σύμφωνος, 7, Aretae. Cur. M. Diut. 2. 5, Galen. 2. 265.

• From A Greek-English Lexicon (Liddell-Scott) (1957)

  ὑπερενόομαι, Pass. to be completely one, Eccl. ὑπερεντελήξ, és, gen. cos, more than complete, Dio C. 47. 17. ὑπερέντευξις, ews, ἡ, intercession for another, Greg. Naz. ὑπερεντρύφάω, to be exceeding haughty, τινὶ to a person, Alciphro 1. 37; at a thing, Schol. Soph. Tr. 281. ὑπερεντυγχάνω, to intercede, ὑπέρ twos for one, Ep. Rom. 8. 26; τινός Clem. Al. 126. ὑπερεξάγω, Zo surpass, τινά Eus. H. E. το. 8,5; τινί in.., Ib. 8. 12, 5. ὑπερεξαίρω, to raise exceedingly: Pass., Hipp. 1133 Ὁ. II. to exalt or praise exceedingly, Eust. 1265. 25. ὑπερεξακισχίλιοι [1], αἱ, a, above 6000, Dem. 1375. 16, Joseph. A. J. 17. 2, 4. ὑπερεξανθέω, to blossom over-much or very much, Poll. 6. 54. ὑπερεξαπατάω, to deceive above measure, Plut. 2. 166 A; Xyland. ὕπαρ ἐξ. ὑπερεξάπτω, to kindle above measure, Acl. N. A. 9. 20: hence ὕπερ- ἔξαψις, ἡ, Io. Philop. ὑπερεξέχω, to stand out or forth exceedingly, Eccl. ὑπερεξηκοντέτηξ, es, above sixty years old, Ar. Eccl. 982. ὑπέρεξις, ews, 7, a property or quality in excess, Plat. Tim. 87 E. ὑπερεξισχύω, to be exceeding strong or mighty, Eccl. ὑπερεόρτιος, ον, above all festivals, Epiphan. ὑπερεπαινέω, to praise above measure, Twa Hadt. 1. 8, Ar. Eq. 680, Eccl. 186, Plat. Euthyd. 303 B, al. ὑπερεπαίρω, to exalt or exaggerate beyond measure, App. Pun. 42, Civ. I. 11, etc. :—tmepémapots, 7, excessive exaltation, Aquila V. T. -ὑπερεπείγω, to press hard, App. Civ. 2. 114, Dio C. 59. 21. ὑπερεπιθύμέω, to desire exceedingly, c. inf., Xen. Cyr. 4. 3, 21., 6.1, 5. ὑπερεπικλίνω [1], Zo lie on above, Iambl. Protr. p. 350 Kiessl. ὑπερεπιστήμων, ov, exceeding wise, A. B. 312. ὑπερεπιτᾶτικός, 7, dv, doubly intensive, of a in ἀάατος, Schol.Il. 14.271. ὑπερεπιτείνω, 20 strain too tight, Philostr. go, Artemid. 3. 59. ὑπερέπτα, v. ὑπερπέτομαι. ὑπ-ερέπτω, to eat away from below, cut away from under, of a stream, κονίην ὑπέρεπτε modoiw 1]. 21. 271. II. of mental suffering, to gnaw secretly, Q. Sm. 9. 377. ὑπερέραμαι, aor. -ηράσθην : Dep. :—to love beyond measure, Twos Ael. ΝΕ 2: ὑπερερεθίζω, to irritate exceedingly, Basil. ὑπερερρωμένως, Adv. very vigorously, Poll. 4. 89., 5. 125. ὑπερέρχομαι, Dep. with aor. 2 and pf. act.:—to pass over, cross, TAs πηγὰς τοῦ ποταμοῦ Xen. An. 4. 4,3; τὰ ὄρη Acl. N. A. 16, 21; τὴν θάλατταν Joseph. A. J. 3. 1, 5. II. to surpass, excel, ἀρεταῖς Pind. O. 13. 20. ὑπερεσθίω, fut. --ἔδομαι, to eat immoderately, Xen. Mem. 1. 2, 4. ὑπ-ερέσσω, to row just behind, Ael. N. A. 13. 2 (vulg. ὑπηρετέω). ὑπερέσχεθον, poét. aor. 2 of ὑπερέχω. ὑπέρευ, Adv. (εὖ) exceeding well, excellently, Plat. Theaet. 185 Ὁ, Xen. Hier. 6, 9, Dem. 228. 17 :---ὑπέρευγε, Luc. Paras. 9, Ael. V. H.9. 38. ὑπερευγενής, és, exceeding noble, Arist. Pol. 4. 11, 5. ὑπ-ερεύγομαι, Dep. to vomit up, ἄχνην és πόντον Ap. Rh. 3. 984. ὑπερευδαιμονέω, to be exceeding happy, Arist. Rhet. 2. 8, 3, Luc, Gall. 20 (v. 1. ὑπερδαίμονα εἶναι). ὑπερευδοκέομαι, Dep. to be well-pleased, Auctor ap. Suid.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  But, instead of my usual stab of concern or guilt, I see this as a single instant in his life amid a zillion other instants with attendant feelings—love, curiosity, desire. His curls are damp around the edges from the heat. I heave him up and inhale an odor of wet earth in his hair, and he plants a dry kiss on my cheek. I let him down and greet Warren, balancing a coffee holder with two steaming cups and a crumpled pastry bag. His white shirt, rolled up at the wrists, shows the lineaments of his brown forearms. He holds the coffee to one side, bending so I can kiss him, and in his preoccupied expression is infinite gentleness. I place my lips on his square jaw and taste the living salt of him. In the kitchen a few minutes later, the first creamy sip of strong coffee gives me a distinct flood of pleasure. I remember a few similar instants when I first quit drinking. Nothing has changed, really. The uncertainty of my marriage is still there. But some equanimity exists, as if some level in my chest has ceased its endless teetering and found its balance point. In my life, I sometimes knew pleasure or excitement but rarely joy. Now a wide sky-span of quiet holds us. My head’s actually gone quiet. Some sluggishness is sloughed off. I am upright all of a sudden, inside a self I find quasi-acceptable, even as I’m incarcerated. Maybe this giant time-out has given me rest I sorely needed. Basically, some fist pounding on the center of my chest has unclasped itself. I’ve let go. I don’t know if Warren notices the difference, for—other than two sessions with a family social worker—we don’t see each other except with Dev, which speaks volumes about the space between us. (Were we both waiting for me to come home? Why didn’t this wall between us stay down, even when we both willed it? Because we didn’t trust each other as much as we trusted the distances we’d grown up in?) The morning after this sane visit, I lift my just-scrubbed face from the towel to meet my own gaze in the metal mirror, and I almost see a bold outline around myself, as if inked with magic marker. Alive, I am, a living, breathing Mary of myself. Hello, stranger, I actually say out loud. In occupational therapy, the other women in the ward—who’ve been vague holograms viewed through a scrim of tears when I checked in—have turned into full-fledged human units whose stories I begin to follow like daytime soaps. We’re supposed to be fashioning decorative wreaths, those circles of dried flowers and herbs that happy housewives hang in suburban kitchens from grosgrain ribbon. A grassy aroma rises around us as we work. I sit before a styrofoam ring, concentrating on the dumb task of wrapping florist’s tape on a green wire.

• From Lit: A Memoir (2009)

  That’s a good starting point, the red pinpoint eye. If I squint inward at it and untether my head from the present, time stops. I close my eyes. From that center dot, I can dive into the red past again, reenter it. Blink, the old porch blooms around me, like a stage set sliding into place, every gray industrial board. Holding the monitor is my smooth thirty years’ hand. The cuticles are chewed raw, but there’s nary vein nor sun blotch. On the yellow fisherman’s coat over my pajamas, rain goes pat pat pat. Not one thing on the planet operates as I would have it, and only here can I plot my counterattacks. Problem one: The fevers my year-old son gets every few weeks can spike to 105°, which means waking the husband, a frantic trip to Children’s Hospital, a sleepless night in the waiting room. No reason for this, nothing wrong with his immune system or growth. They’ll give him the cherry-flavored goop that makes him shit his brains out, and the cough will ease, but his stomach will cramp, and on the nights he ingests that medicine, he’ll draw his stumpy legs to his chest in agony and ball up tight, then arch his back and scream, and though no one suggests this is my fault, my inability to stop it is my chief failure in the world. Problem two: If he’s sick, I’ll have to cancel classes so maybe the real professors who just hired me on a friend’s recommendation—despite my being too muttonheaded to sport a very relevant diploma—will fail to renew me next semester. I’ve published one slim volume of verse and some essays, but so has every other semiliterate writer in Cambridge. It’s like owning a herd of cattle in my home state of Texas, publishing a book is.